The many personalities from
Virgin Mary to Mary Shelley,
The many forms from
Kate Moss to Ashley Graham,
The many faces from
Eve to Audrey Hepburn,
The model who struts a hint
Of cleavage or a glimpse of buttocks
In the open secrets of Victoria,
The vital statistics of a muse
Who is the vital force, elan vital
Of man. An obese heart,
Which raptures when she sees you
At the end of the day, and a kiss,
Which launches every dawn,
A woman, who when dripping of oxytocin,
Sees you, as not just lover, but father-material.
How there’s a bell inside of her
Ringing away, and a clock that keeps
Guard, and a season-less vow
That she preserves like a pact between thieves.
How every other woman on earth,
Becomes irrelevant, to one of her kind,
The one who spans a gap, and seals a space,
And a feeling that everything is
Supposed to be the way it is,
Woman, how you skim her lips and drown in her depths,
And the surrealism of a moment,
When her lips scream God,
When you realize that’s how she sees you.
As the deity who carries her,
To the top of Mount Olympus,
Her sex god.